


The Curve of the Earth

by wardo_wedidit



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Domestic, F/M, Gen, Kid Fic, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-12-14 16:46:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wardo_wedidit/pseuds/wardo_wedidit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snapshots from Amy and Rory's first years living their no-going-back normal life:  the good, the bad, and the magical.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Curve of the Earth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frenchswissborder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frenchswissborder/gifts).



> Title from the [Matt Nathanson song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gyFh2dYpoeA), written as a Christmas present.

//

_one year_

They learn to settle into their everyday lives in this brave new world where each day follows the next in chronological order.  It seems strange at first, but soon it just becomes normal, comfortable, lived-in. 

Occasionally they fight or argue, or get bored, or too busy.  And they’ve had that before, of course, because there were times in-between the Doctor when they would return to this—but those always felt like temporary visits, because somehow they always knew in the back of their mind that there was an adventure in a whole different world lurking around the corner. 

They learn to find adventure in everyday life. 

It’s in the busy nature and bustle of the city, the constant lights and noise and voices, the fact that there’s always something new to do or see.  It’s in their shitty little flat—where the pipes creak obnoxiously and there’s hardly ever hot water, but there are yellow Sunday mornings spent in bed and the smell of pancakes and coffee that still lingers a little when they come home after a long day, and there is the cackling of the radio when, no matter how tired they are or how much their feet hurt, “A-Tisket, A-Tasket” will come on, and Rory will pull her up off the couch to spin her around and dance until Amy is breathless with laughter. 

There’s the way they fit together at night, the way Amy will tuck her head underneath his chin and brush his collarbone with her nose while Rory wraps his arms around her, warm and sure, and press a kiss to the top of her head and sigh.  And when the heat goes out, they will pile blankets upon quilts about comforters and still shiver underneath them, teeth clacking and goosebumps prickling until they both drift off to sleep, lulled gently into it my steady breathing, the rise and fall of the other’s chest. 

Because _this_ , what they have, has always been more real and more exciting than any other adventure, and maybe it just took settling down to realize that. 

 

//

_five years_

Eventually they move out of the city, to a town about half an hour away called Roslyn.  They buy their first house, with a kitchen Amy loves and a large yard and garden for Rory. 

“There are too many rooms,” Rory says, standing upstairs in one of the empty ones.  “What are we ever going to do with all of them?”  They’re currently debating whether to turn it into an office for Amy to write in or a guest bedroom, though they think the second one would be a bit of a waste.  They like the way the sunlight streams in from the window on the back wall, scatters across the room and gives everything a golden-honey glow, and there’s a lovely view of the garden. 

Amy laughs, head thrown back so that her red hair catches the light in the best way.  She steps forward to wrap her arms around his waist, bowing her head and resting it between his shoulderblades.  “You know,” she murmurs.  “There’s another thing we could do with it.”

“Hm?” Rory hums, half-listening while the other half of him runs mental calculations on which would be cheaper, buying a second bed or buying Amy a better desk. 

“We could turn it into a nursery,” she says, so quietly Rory has to strain to hear, and then his entire brain snaps to attention. 

He turns around in her arms so they’re face-to-face, unable to keep the wide grin of excitement off his face.  “You’re serious?” he asks.  She nods.  “And you’re _sure_?”

Amy sighs.  “Rory Williams, of _course_ I’m sure; I swear, if you aren’t the biggest idiot I’ve ever met—”

He cuts her off with a kiss, because he can’t say "thank you" and "I love you" at the same time, so he tries to infuse the kiss with both.

When they pull back, Amy—his brave, strong, beautiful Amy—looks at him with a ghost of uncertainty in her eyes. "D'you think we can do it?  I mean… are we ready?" she asks, a tentative whisper in the space between them.  Rory just smiles.

" _I_ think," he says, moving to wrap his arms around her waist and tip their foreheads together, "I think we can do anything together."

Amy lets out a startled laugh, pulling back a little, shaking her head.  It's like he can see the words forming on her lips— _"Rory Williams, that's the sappiest thing you've ever said,”_ —but he plows on before she can start.

"No, Amy, I'm serious!  Come on," he tries, tone a touch of pleading, "We've fought aliens together!  Countless times!  And you've been a queen and a pirate and I've died, over and over again. And you've given everything up for me, _twice_."  Her face is open now, like she's really listening.  "And I've waited hundreds and hundreds of years for you," he says, voice quieter now, cupping her cheek in his hand. Her eyes are searching him, a soft smile fighting its way onto her lips as he says, "What's one more adventure?"

Her smile turns into a teasing grin now as she quirks an eyebrow at him.  "Just one?" she asks, and Rory kisses her again, because he can't _not_.

Because he's wanted this with Amy as long as he's known what _this_ was, because there was never anyone else, because he would do it all over and over and over again as long as it meant he ended up here.

There are days when those adventures feel like a whole other world, like those were fairy tales they've been told so often they know them like the back of their hands, like those were different people completely and _this_ is all there is and ever was.  And then there are days when they will wake up and take a minute to remember, miss all of it like a phantom limb, a constant ache in the chest, too close for comfort.

And then there are days like these, where the two roads seem to flow together seamlessly, and they can be both.  Those are the best days.

Amy starts to smile into the kiss, so much so that they have to pull away for a moment.  A moment becomes a minute and they're just giggling there together, hands locked behind each other's backs and noses touching, because they're going to do it.  They're going to be parents.

Rory lifts Amy by the waist and twirls her around as she laughs, protesting breathlessly.  He can't help but think how lucky he is, that he's somehow managed to trick the universe into getting everything he ever wanted since he was nine years old.

 

//

_seven years_

They adopt Anthony in 1946.  He officially becomes a part of their family almost two years to the day they decided to go for it.

He is three years old when he becomes theirs.  There are so many moments— _so_ many—that thrill and delight them both, and they know this it is the greatest adventure they will ever attempt.

But there are hard moments too.

They're at a neighborhood barbecue about six months after they've adopted Anthony.  Rory is chatting with some of the other husbands while he keeps an eye on Anthony in the sandbox, but Amy's not far off, deep in chatter with some of the neighbors.

Between them is a group of women speaking in hushed tones, and when there's a lull in his own conversation Rory can hear what they're saying.

_"Poor dears, you know, they couldn't have children of their own—"_

_"Such a sad story—"_

_"But don't you think sometimes that's God's way of saying—"_

_"I mean, he's not really_ theirs _—"_

And apparently Amy can hear them too, because she's whirling forward, face flushed until she’s inches from them, voice raised.  “How _dare_ you!” she spits out.  Everyone there is looking over, and Rory plucks Anthony out of the sandbox and hurries over. 

“Anthony is ours is every sense of the word!” she says through gritted teeth, the women looking at her shocked but defiant, as if they expected her to take it lying down.  ( _They don’t know Amy,_ Rory thinks.)  “We worked for him and we fought for him and we _love_ him, and that is the—the _only_ thing—that matters,” she finishes, her eyes tracking them up and down, disgusted. 

And then Rory’s by her side, a tearful Anthony on one hip, obviously upset by Amy’s outburst.  “C’mon Amy, let’s go,” he says in hushed tones, like you would to a spooked foal.  He gently takes her by the elbow but she shrugs him off, choosing instead to turn on her heel and lead the way to the car.  Rory and Anthony follow,   Rory looking over his shoulder to shoot them a glare that Amy would be proud of. 

It’s not until they’re driving away when Amy breaks down, heavy tears streaming down her cheeks.  Rory reaches over and puts his hand on her knee, giving it a squeeze.  When they pull into the driveway, he pulls her towards him, holding her tight and letting her sniffle into his shirt as he smooths his hand over her hair.  Anthony is humming contentedly to himself in the backseat as Amy clutches tentatively at Rory’s pocket. 

After a couple of minutes, she gathers herself and gets out of the car, walking around the side and opening the door to the backseat.  Anthony holds his arms out instinctively  waiting to be picked up, and Amy laughs, wiping at her tears one last time before grabbing him and balancing him on one hip.  “C’mon, Anthony,” she says. 

“C’mon, Mama,” he parrots back, and Rory smiles. 

He may not look like them, or have their DNA or even their accent, but Rory fleetingly thinks there is a lot in a name. 

 

//

_eleven years_

And as he grows they see more and more that somehow he is the perfect mix of both of them.  He has Rory's calm and easy nature and Amy's passion and wonder, her quickness to believe in the impossible. 

They vacation in Maine one summer when Anthony is seven, in a little town called Kittery.  They sepnd most of their days on the beach, where Anthony runs around collecting different pebbles.  Rory and Amy take turns taking him out into the water, because even though he is probably big enough to handle it he’s still a little frightened, trembling a little as the foamy waves crash around his knees, even as Rory or Amy hold his hands. 

Otherwise, Amy spends most of her time down where the waves fade out and the sand is damp, cheeks pink despite her huge, wide-brimmed hat, breathing in the salt air and relaxing.  Rory sits in a chair father up under their beach umbrella, reading that novel he hadn’t gotten a chance to get around to lately, occasionally looking up to make sure Anthony hasn’t run off or to admire the way the sunlight streams through Amy’s red hair, catching in it and bouncing around like sparks of gold. 

However, they do spend a fair amount of time the summer cottage they’re staying in, owned by a friend of theirs.  It has a lovely little backyard, with lots of grass for Anthony to play in and some flowers and even a little gazebo in the corner.  Most of the time they don’t spend at the beach or in town proper Anthony spends out there, digging holes and playing with worms and drawing pictures of the flowers or the sky for Amy to hang on the fridge.

Anthony troops in one day for lunch, flushed and excited.  "I met a man in the garden today," he declares as Amy sets a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in front of him.

"Did you?" she asks before returning to drying the dishes, leaning against the counter to listen to their son.  Rory is seated at the end of the table, looking up over the paper at them every once in a while.

Anthony nods and proceeds to tell them about a conversation he had with this man about the lifespan of butterflies.  Anthony makes up imaginary friends all the time, and so it's nothing new to either of them.

"Oh yeah," Anthony says maybe two minutes later, like he’s just remembered something.  "He said one more thing."

"And what was that?" Amy asks, leaning up on her tiptoes to put away a dish.

"He said to say hello from your Raggedy Doctor," Anthony replies, completely matter-of-fact.

There is a holy clatter as Amy drops the dish she was holding and it shatters into a thousand pieces.  Rory's head pops up from the paper, and Amy is already rushing towards him, pulling Rory out of his chair.

"Come on, _come on_!" she cries, throwing open the screen glass door and leading the way into the backyard, her face alight with excitement.

Sure enough, there is the deep blue of the TARDIS, spinning up in the air and slowly ascending higher and higher into the clouds.  “Goodbye!” Anthony calls, completely unquestioning the strangeness of the whole situation.  Instead he’s jumping up and down, waving with his entire arm.  “Goodbye, goodbye!”

Rory can’t help it—he laughs.  It shakes loose in his chest and it bubbles out of him unexpected, and soon he is waving too, calling out his own goodbyes.  This may be a whole other life and he couldn’t be happier, but it’s amazing how exciting it feels just to catch a glimpse of it all again…  The TARDIS and adventure and the _Doctor_ , all of it just above their heads, spinning like a top in a sea of hazy blue. 

It shudders and shivers away, as it always does, off into the hallowed halls of history or a faraway planet.  Rory wonders vaguely if he’s alone or if he’s found someone.  He hopes desperately that it’s the second, fleetingly entertains the thought of it being River and has to stifle a bit of a giggle.  The world—and not just this one, any world, _all worlds_ are a crazy place.  If nothing else, being with the Doctor taught him that. 

He comes back to himself with a dull, heavy ache in his heart when he sees Amy, still frozen in front of them, her eyes lifted to the sky. 

Rory will never forget watching the TARDIS leave her behind that first time, standing outside in her backyard in her kissagram costume, eyes squeezed shut like she didn’t want to face it.  He feels an echo of that same pain now, and he wishes he could see her face so he could _know_ —so he could make it better. 

Her eyes are bright but clear when she turns around, lips stretched in a wide, childlike grin.  There are spots of pink high on her cheeks, and—she laughs.  Breathless and giddy as she throws her arms around him, and in that second, Rory knows it’s all going to be okay. 

Before too long, Anthony tugs on the hem of Amy’s skirt and she picks him up too, and then they’re all mushed together in a very undignified group hug.  They look crazy, probably, to any random passerby, but they’re giggling and then Amy is kissing his cheek and Rory is kissing Anthony’s and Anthony is squealing, high and delighted and it just makes them all laugh harder. 

They compose themselves a couple moments later.  Rory takes Anthony’s hand as they meander back into the cottage.  Anthony looks up at him and asks, “Daddy, who’s the Raggedy Doctor?”

Amy shoots them a soft smile, and Rory grins.  “That’s a long story,” he drawls.  Anthony’s expectant expression does not change—stubborn, just like his mother. 

“Tell you what, sport,” he decides.  “I’ll tell you tonight.  The Raggedy Doctor makes an awfully good bedtime story.” 

Amy’s smile widens into a grin as she picks up Anthony’s other hand, and the three of them, linked together, stroll slowly back into their lives.

 

//

_the end_


End file.
